


When Angels Fall

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel True Forms (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester From Hell, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Demon True Forms, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Gen, Hell, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: “Angels fall to earth, forgetting about their wings, holding onto things they should fly away from.” -R.H. Sin.A.K.A:It was Castiel's destiny to raise the Righteous Man from Hell.





	When Angels Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> No warnings! (everyone starts gasping because how is that possible?)

when angels fall.  


angels fall to earth 

forgetting about their wings 

holding on to things 

they should fly away from 

_-R. H. Sin, from Whiskey, Words, and a Shovel. _  
__

The light was burning, blindingly, against his skin. It felt like a hundred suns exploded right beside his feathers, each one alighting with the most agonizing pain imaginable. The hellfire was so, so much worse than he ever would have thought. Even more than holy oil. It wasn't just the heat, the smell, the pain, but also that feeling of wrongness. It was thickly smeared across his form, making him feel heavy. Pervasive and unholy and sanctimonious. 

The demons couldn't be far behind him. Their own leathery wings were used to the burning, forever in agony as long as they stayed in this realm. As evil as they are, once, they were human. Even with hardly a shred of that humanity left, Hell targeted it. Mutilated their truest forms. 

But they were used to the torment, barely paid it any mind. They were gaining on him. His grace was like a beacon in the pit, drawing every hellion to him. He needed to go faster. He had to reach the righteous man. 

So he bit back the cry that would most certainly be edged with his true voice, and held steady. Forged ahead through the sulfur and brimstone, through the fire racing along him. Dean Winchester. He could hear the human. Less his actual voice and more a cry from his soul. It screamed out in terror, in pain, in absolute disgust and horror. But, worse, was that undertone of something. Something twisted and so near to the demons chasing him he could practically feel him turning. 

They couldn't be too late, could they? So many of his brothers had died for this, clearing a path so he could slip through the gate. He had to be faster, had to get Dean Winchester before he drew blood. Everything counted on that. 

The burning spread across his shoulder blades, and the screams of the other souls filled his ears. His wings... he could already feel the feathers turning to ashes. White turning to a deep black that would mimic those fallen from grace. He'd been warned, before he'd undertaken this mission, that there would be consequences. But being branded as a rebel? A dissenter, after only fulfilling his destiny? That would be a struggle nearly insurmountable. 

But he pushed that out of his mind. He had only one goal, one thing to focus on, and that was the wretched soul of the Righteous Man. He was being held in invisible chains, wrapped deep inside Hell's torturer's embrace. Protecting him from both angels and other demons alike. And keeping him focused, no doubt. 

A line of fire raked down his form, catching at the bottom of one wing. This time a scream did escape his mangled throat as the appendage faltered, feathers nearly shredded enough to lose flight. The demons chattered excitedly behind him as the first drops of holy blood spilled in the Pit. They were right on his heels. 

He forced his grace to push him onwards, racing towards Alistair. He stopped short as he reached the wall, a manifestation of the demon's own essence barricading those inside. It would alert the torturer to his presence. 

He dove in. 

The demons that had been chasing him immediately stopped, drawing short at the edge. He was Alistair's problem now. Smog and a deep, burning smoke shrouded everything, but he stayed focused on the Righteous Man's soul, pulsing and frayed. 

Finally, after everything, he reached the cavern. Souls were bound onto the wall, chains securing them to racks as another tainted with blackness carved deep into them. The demon was nowhere to be seen. Only the Winchester. 

Green eyes, or the closest facsimile a soul could get, turned towards him. A blade was held loosely in his hand, blood absolutely drenching the metal and skin. Worse, though, was the hint of a smile on his lips. Like he enjoyed the feeling. The soul he'd been torturing kept wailing until Dean swiftly decapitated it. She faded into dust, certain to be resurrected soon enough. 

He could still hear the man's inner soul crying out for help, pushing and pulling against the internal chains that bound it. But outside, Dean's real consciousness, was full of pure, unblemished joy. 

Castiel came close, blocking out the other souls' horrid screams, and tried to grab onto the man's shoulder. To raise him from this perdition and finally stop the apocalypse. Although it seemed the First Seal had already been broken. But Dean lashed out, the metal scoring a mark down his form. 

He screamed, wincing as the voice caused the human pain. The Righteous Man's soul wrenched with the agony. The blade had just been mortal, but he was in his true form. Anything could hurt him like this. Even kill him. The other angels' voices floated into his head. He didn't have much longer. The demons were gaining a foothold, and his brothers couldn't keep the gate open much longer. 

He grabbed the blade from where the Winchester's soul was still laying huddled on the ground, and hurled it across the floor until it was no longer in reach. Then he pulled the wretched thing into his arms. He practically melted, entire body seeking the goodness he radiated. Like this, he could sense the all the pain. He sent a thin tendril of grace into his mind, searching out memories. 

He watched in a second thirty years of torture and solitude. Then the moment he'd broken. Then too many things muddled and unclear, save both a feeling of happiness and sorrow. 

What this human had gone through was unspeakable. He clutched the prone form a bit tighter to his chest, wincing as it pulled his cut. They needed to go. 

He shot back into the air, wind flowing alarmingly through his missing feathers. He had enough to sustain flight, but the loss surprised him. It would take a while to heal. 

They passed back through the barrier that Alistair formed, his screech of indignation floating through the air. The barrier had been what he'd been following. The demon was fighting the angels at the gate, leaving Dean unguarded. An interesting plan, but he didn't give much more thought to it. 

The demons were following him again, but he remained steadily ahead of them. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he flew faster. His brethren could not defend the gate for much more time. 

Another hellion appeared in front of him, claws out and ready to strike right at the human curled deep into his arms. At the last second he turned, protecting the innocent soul with his body but also baring his wings. He could almost hear the demon's laugh as claws struck feather, slicing deep into his grace. 

He bit down on his true voice, letting out an almost human yelp. Agony seared through him, grace pulsing. His head seemed foggy, and for a moment he lost sight. 

But he realized he was falling, and the soul he was carrying just conscious enough to be screaming in fear as they hurtled farther and farther down. Feathers rented and tattered, wings flapping against the pain, he managed to stop their descent. His grace was burning, trying to fix the damage as they just hovered their, demons fast approaching. 

Quickly he realized the injuries were too expansive. He wouldn't be able to heal himself without dying. So he instead focused everything on flight. It nearly burned himself out, but he managed to start the race again. He could feel his body giving out, every part of him screaming to stop. But the human in his arm whimpered, and he spurred on. 

They were fast approaching the gate, hellfire that surrounds it burning bright against the gloom. The heat of it seared his wings, but he ignored it. By the time this was over, his wings would probably be totally gone. And the grief of losing that would be enough for him to die. 

Bright flashes of other angels' grace lighted at the exit, surrounded by the black of demons. He pushed even faster, hurtling through the gate. As soon as he was through, his brothers sealed it, making sure no demons escaped. 

Forms huddled around him, worried and whispering. One tried to take Dean from his arms, but he held on tighter. This was his last job, the final part of his destiny: remake the Winchester's body, and put his soul back in. Weave his grace into the very fiber of his being. After that, he could die. 

Slowly, very, very slowly, he flew across the sky. He could feel his wings flaking away into nothingness, but managed to make it to the human's grave-site. He nearly fell onto the earth. 

Painfully, he began to construct a body. He didn't put the Righteous Man's soul down as he worked, and tried to comfort him. He was still quivering with fear, burrowing as far into Castiel's true form as he could. He was so pained it hurt to feel. 

Soon enough the body was ready, exactly the same as the human's previous. Perfect and unblemished, intertwined with whatever last ounce of grace he had left. It fluttered, barely sustaining. But it would have to be good enough. Laying the man down into the body and sending it deep into his grave was difficult. It felt like wrenching himself in half, which it very well could have been. 

His own form was flagging. His cuts were sluggishly bleeding grace and, alarmingly, blood. But just before a wave of something that felt terrifyingly like unconsciousness overtook him, he yelled to the sky. To whatever God may be up there, to his brothers and sisters who must be weary from battle. To the demons trapped in the underworld, who ripped his wings from him. 

"Dean Winchester has been saved."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudo or comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
